


Failure (Through and Through)

by orphan_account



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: (tags may change), Bad Parenting, Dissociation, Graphic descriptions of suicide, Jeremy Heere’s Anxiety - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, SQUIP used as a metaphor for rape, Suicide Attempt, Victim Blaming, past self harm, this is honestly just a fuck you to myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 10:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17681906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jeremy Heere’s entire life has been torn apart by his own existence.





	Failure (Through and Through)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Just a warning there is a detailed suicide attempt in this chapter. Please be careful when reading. 
> 
> Also! Please let me know if I should keep this as a one shot or make it into a multi chapter fic. Thanks! 
> 
> (This is completely unedited so uh sorry)

Was there such a thing as a failure in the fault of living? Could one point to a moment in his life and say “oh look! that’s where he fucked up!” or would they not be able to pin point it? 

Jeremy liked to think that his entire life was that moment. From the second he made his way into the world to the hours spent sobbing over a bottle of pills or holding an exacto knife over his wrist in the middle of the night. Not that he did that. He was too Okay and too Happy to do that. No, instead he would look up at the glow in the dark stars, half peeling off, and think of how they were possibly the only hint of his personality left in his room. 

He’d torn it all apart after the SQUIP. Bleached every bit of himself Before and After. If Jeremy had a personality before the SQUIP, if he had one while he had it, they were both gone. Deceased and rotting six feet under. 

Just like his will to live. (But don’t tell anyone.) 

He could vaguely recall how tearing down his posters and his bedspread felt like tearing into his shoulders and forearms and thighs and everywhere he could reach. Again, not that he ever did that, he could just imagine. It was that adrenaline rush of pain — satiating and gut wrenching all at once. 

When was the last time he wore short sleeves, when was the last time he slept at Michael’s without shoving himself into one of Michael’s sweaters, desperate to convey an air of passable contentment? 

When did he stop eating? Drinking water? Showering? Sleeping? Paying attention? 

When did his death wish stop and his existence begin? 

Jeremy had begun to think they were one and the same. It had the same affect on his mind as the first time he had popped Michael’s adderall. (Don’t tell Michael) 

Maybe he took to shady corners in his hell hole of New Jersey. He stopped popping someone else’s pills and turned to FDA approved chemicals instead of morally ambiguous and somehow edible computers. Maybe Jeremy stopped being himself and became the person he thought he needed to be. 

All he really knew for sure was that his room was bare, his clothes post SQUIP were meant for a certain type of football player, and that he hadn’t spoken to any of his friends (friends? plural? who was he kidding?) since he had refused to ask Christine out. 

Who asked out the girl that was basically used as bait to start the apocalypse? Even Jeremy didn’t fuck up that bad. 

However, he could think of a million other times he fucked up. 

His mother knocking on the door while he laid in the tub, bleeding out. Just not fast enough. 

Could someone be so useless that they weren’t even able to end the torture that was their own existence? God, even his own inner monologue was shitty. He sounded like some old plagiarized wattpad poem. Fuck, he was pathetic. 

He. Didn’t. Do. Anything. Right. 

His gritty emotions poked at every cell and pulled at his reality. He burned out his personality, burned out what made him Jeremy, and made himself someone easier to understand.

It was easier to swallow the idea of an empty corpse than the human disaster known as Jeremy Heere. So, he kept popping adderall and hoped that he would focus on something other than the need to fix what he had broken. 

His mother refused to wash out the bathtub, so he bleached that out too. There was the nagging feeling, numbed, but still there, that maybe he could find a way out. 

An answer was just out of reach, and just to the right of the nearby 7/11. 

More like four blocks to the right of 7/11. Michael’s place. What a swell dude. 

God, again, Jeremy was pathetic. He pondered over every little action for twelve hours before he made a choice and then he pondered and criticized his decision for another seven years afterwards. Pure Anxiety. But! The one choice that always seemed easiest was walking those four blocks and seeing Michael. Except that Jeremy was sitting on the lip of the bathtub, with an exacto knife hovering above his arm. 

Maybe he could do it right this time? 

Probably not though, he was good at being a failure. Maybe there was an award for that sort of thing? The “How Many Times You Can Fuck Up and Still be Alive” award. 

Jeremy didn’t think about his when he brought the knife down. Cause, ouch. 

Big Ouch. 

There was a little line of blood that pooled into a bubble. He waited for the bubble to pop, letting all hell break loose. His phone rang as soon as the bubble popped, as soon as the pooled blood started to streamline down to his elbow. He went down again, as the phone rang, and rang. 

His ringtone was the MarioKart menu song. Jeremy hated himself a little bit more when he heard it. He pushed the knife down again. Again. (Don’t tell anyone, but Jeremy took a peak at the phone, saw the contact name, and went a deeper on the next pass.) 

Jeremy wished he had managed to pop more adderall before he died. Died. That was a strong word, right? It had an air of finality to it, an air of Pure Anxiety. 

Jeremy wished he hadn’t ripped apart his life, he wished he had walked over those four blocks one more time, he wished he had answered the phone. 

When he laid down in the tub, his shirt got an ugly stain, his jeans bunches up strangely, he didn’t bother fixing himself up. He was dying, right? It wasn’t like someone was going to care about how his body would look? Or maybe they would, and they’d take pictures to post on some dark web gore site, where his ugly shirt and ugly stain would be judged by dark web people. That sounded probable. 

He wished he had gotten the chance to sit with himself and scream that his life was worth nothing. Worth less than the SQUIP. Worth less than the effort everyone put into forgiving him. 

Instead he watched the stain grow darker and twisted to make his jeans more comfortable. Not that he cared. He didn’t Care. He looked up at the shower head and realized that it suddenly had become a lot harder to breathe. 

Jeremy heard the MarioKart song play again, and he heard the distant sound of car horn. Then then the infernal buzzing of a doorbell, then spots hit his eyes like stars or sparkles that you get when you stand up too fast or stare at the sun for too long. 

Then nothing.


End file.
